Lion Heart
by eruptingearth
Summary: Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts for his seventh year, along with those continuing their education, including 6th-come-7th year Aurora Stone. But scars can run deep, and letting go of the past is easier said than done. Bravery can be hard to find - but does difficulty necessarily mean impossibility? ((Draco/OC - rated M for a reason)) ON HAITUS - LACK OF INSPIRATION :-)
1. Chapter One

**Summary:** Set after the Battle of Hogwarts; Draco returns to Hogwarts for his seventh year, along with Hermione, Blaise and those continuing their education to the next year - including Muggle-born Aurora Stone. But something new threatens the school, and letting go of the past is easier said than done, especially as secrets heighten and discarded rivalries are unearthed once again.

**_A N.:_**_ Hi guys! It has been an especially long time since I uploaded anything - and I'd just like to apologise to anyone who'd started to read my Sherlock fanfic _**_Was It Worth It?_**_ and just to let you know that it has been officially placed __**on hiatus **__due to severe writer's block and plain old boredom.  
I had, however, started to feel inspired about a Draco Malfoy story in the mean time, and this is basically what I came up with.  
Obviously,__** a lot of the characters belong to JKR etc **__but there are a few new ones that are__** my own Original Characters**__, just so you know. This is a __**Draco M/OC**__ fanfic and please be aware that there will be __**mature themes and content**__, including swearing, smut and psychological problems (I have next to none experience in this area so please be kind with criticising if I've misunderstood anything.. I have done research and it won't be in too much detail, just so you know).  
Anyway, I hope you like it! And don't forget to drop me a review - absolutely anything and absolutely everything is appreciated from my dear readers xx_

* * *

**Chapter One  
**_Forgetting is Easier Said than Done_

September 1 had always arrived slowly for Aurora Stone and this summer had been no exception. As she sat at the window seat in her attic bedroom, she looked on over the roofs of her hometown silent under the starless night. Actually, in reality, she could put this summer down on the table as the slowest one of them all, purely because she hadn't had any indication on whether she would be continuing her education at Hogwarts. The anticipation had built and built throughout the weeks – she knew the letters wouldn't arrive, _if_ they would, until the last couple of weeks, but she just couldn't help it. She had seen the damage the Battle had had on the castle; she'd seen the endless oceans of rubble, the shards of glass splintered across the corridors. The physical damage of her favourite place was enough to break her heart and deter any continuation of, well, of anything, even if it had been mostly cleared by the start of the holidays. And that's not even thinking about the other damage. Aurora shuddered and pressed her forehead against the shield of glass. She had watched her professors, her Housemates, and her _friends_ suffer as she had fought alongside them. She watched as Fenrir Greyback devoured Lavender Brown. She watched as her friend Ginny grieved for her brother with her family. She read in the Prophet afterwards that there had been at least 50 students and teachers died that night, not to mention the members of that Order of the Phoenix she'd also read about.

She sighed and turned away from the window, her eyes falling on the square of parchment lying on her bed. As it happens, however, she would be returning for another year: her final year. Professor McGonagall – or rather, _Headmistress_ McGonagall – invited her to either repeat her sixth or continue to her seventh and, despite everything, she couldn't turn the offer down. She loved Hogwarts, with its labyrinthine corridors and its breath-taking grounds. If magic could materialise, it would be that castle. She gave herself a scintilla smile. She definitely couldn't deny how different she felt about Hogwarts than what she did during the holidays at home. After living there, of course the Muggle world was going to be… incredibly _boring_. Her mother tried to keep it exciting, but Cadbury's didn't have the same excitement as a Chocolate Frog or Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and television didn't interest her at all. As the weeks passed, she found herself going on a daily walk, delving into the Scottish countryside surrounding the village simply because it reminded her of Hogwarts' backdrops.

Maybe she shouldn't leave her mum at home alone for hours on end, but the walks took her mind of things. She had even accumulated a tiny bit of a tan on her stereotypically pale skin, with the faint lines from her t-shirts visible in the best lights. As well as being the slowest, it had also been the hottest with an unbearable heat wave.

A pipe creaking snapped her head up to the clock on her bedside table: 3:56am. Her groan was almost inaudible. In four hours, she would be on her way to the train station to catch the 8:30 train to London for her annual Diagon Alley visit; four more hours until she was back in the wizarding world. Four damn hours. She pulled herself from her window seat and stood in the middle of her bedroom, bored. With being in the attic, it was one of the biggest in the house, fitting a double bed, two bedside tables, a bookcase, a desk, a window seat and her wardrobe, and still has wall-space for shelves and wall art. Her mother had decorated it last summer to cheer her daughter up, and replaced the posters from when she was eleven with framed butterfly samples and canvased photography. Aurora had been grateful, of course, but why bother for a room that's only lived in for about eight weeks of the year?

The she had to admit that it was nice to be back and actually have breathing space after living in the Gryffindor Tower with three of her closest friends. With only four in a dorm, it was cramped – Aurora couldn't think of how bad it would be if there were a fifth.

Four hours.

Her bed was still made from the morning before, the bedding neatly tucked under the excessive amount of pillows and cushions. Aurora flopped herself down diagonally across the white duvet and reached for her bedside table. A small pharmaceutical bottle stood behind the lamp, half in shadow, hidden from the rest of the room. She'd had to get her prescription renewed at the beginning of the summer, along with her first therapy session since the summer before. It was the worst timing. She'd forgotten to take her anti-depressives during the Battle and her anxiety and dizziness were just two things that were flagged in those two hours. Of course, when Aurora was at her worst just under two years before, her parents were forced to seek out a psychiatrist from the wizarding community – and that wasn't the easiest of tasks. Eventually, they discovered Healers at St. Mungo's who had experience with Muggle psychiatry, and one Medi-witch kindly offered to give Aurora the treatment she needed.

And she, of course, knew about the Battle. And she asked questions. And Aurora had let it all out. She'd cried for those who had died. She'd cried for those who had lived. She'd cried for not dying too. She'd cried because of guilt, because of terror, because it had built and built ever since Harry Potter had eventually defeated Lord Voldemort. Then she'd cried in happiness. It sounds silly as she looked back, but they were the tears that she hadn't been able to let out since that night in May.

She flicked the lid and jolted out a single pill and swallowed it with a sip of stagnant water. It tasted stale as she stared at the ceiling. Her eyes flicked over to the clock again. 4:07am. Sighing, she turned on her side and picked up the nearest book.

...

The Malfoy Manor was still, and as soundless as a cemetery. Even the fire made no crackles as Draco Malfoy stood before it, fingering the glass of Firewhiskey in his hand, his gaze transfixed on the flickering flames. He wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been standing there – an hour? Two hours? Maybe it had been the entire day. His bedroom was the only place in the entire manor that he could convince himself to enter. Everywhere else just reminded him – and it wasn't like he _needed_ reminding. The memories, the _nightmares_, were there constantly, festering away. Torturing him. Every corner of every room had some kind of indent or mark from the past year carved into the air, and Draco shuddered every single time they caught his eye. It was all over, but he was still a prisoner in his own home.

He let out a heavy sigh and took a drink, finding unique solace in the burning sensation. It was his father's best bottle, but he figured he wouldn't have need for it for a while. It hadn't taken long for the Aurors to catch up to them, and the trio were taken into custody. Draco, still a student, wasn't convicted for anything. He'd stood, his face blank, before the Wizengamot, secretly pleading that his true story would come into light. And to his surprise, his case was thrown out the window almost immediately. But the other Malfoy trials were still on going – and, much to Draco's dismay, the outcome was obvious. They might as well have been sentenced to life in Azkaban already, what with the articles spieled in Prophet every day. There was no denying that the Malfoy name had been severely tarnished – if it hadn't been already. Draco let out a bitter laugh. They say the outside world can be as bad as the inside world. Whoever first said that had it spot on.

His mother was in absolute pieces, of course, though she hardly showed it to anyone. During those dreaded visiting hours, Draco could see how worn down Narcissa Malfoy had truly become. Also labelled as an "accessory", sympathy was just as scarce for them as it was for Lucius. And Draco wasn't surprised. He supposed that he'd always known, deep down, that this would happen sooner or later. He swigged back another mouthful.

"I should have known better than to just… go along with it all," he muttered. But how could he have just turned his back to the only family he had? He had grown up listening to the prejudiced preaching of his father, and even his Aunt Bellatrix. And his mother certainly didn't say anything to disagree with them. He had been indoctrinated into believing that the Malfoys were superior to all, especially Mud– _Muggle-borns_. His lips pursed into a thin line. It always had come down to bloodlines.

Draco clicked his neck, his eyes still on the orange and red blur in front. Realistically, he deserved to go down along with his father, and his mother deserved to walk free – she just did what she thought would impress Lucius, and The Dark Lord himself when he had decided to take Malfoy Manor for his own.

An involuntary shiver ran through Draco's bones as he replayed those months. Those insufferably agonising months that didn't seem to want to end. Always under Voldemort's snake-like eyes, any change of heart was useless and instantly punished with excruciating pain or a flash of green light. If you were lucky, it was the latter. Death was better than the searing torture from the Cruciatus Curse.

The amount of pained eyes Draco had been forced to look into was unbearable to think of. If The Dark Lord was the tiniest bit irritated, he didn't think twice about hexing – or threatening someone else to hex the unlucky ones instead. It seemed that Draco had been his favourite to force, and Draco's cowardice had cost so many minds, so many lives.

He finished his drink and reached to place it on the mantelpiece. His sleeve rode up his arm, the faint charcoal curve of the snake tattoo glaring at him in the fiery light. He couldn't even look at it, but he knew it was there. He'd tried everything to get it removed, even resorting to Muggle laser tattoo removal but, of course, that didn't work. True, it had faded considerably, but the magic was embedded into his skin.

His fist tightened, still grasping onto the whiskey glass. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, his anger coursing through his veins. _Coward. _Narrowed eyes. _They died because of you. _Whitened knuckles. _Because of your sheer cowardice. _He couldn't even remember throwing the glass across the room. It cut through the air and collided with the wall with pure force. Shards of glass scattered across the floor.

"I should have fucking known better," he spat. His fist met the hearth - again, and again, and again until he collapsed with exhaust and strangled sobs. Pale skin speckled raw with blood with only the glass fragments glimmering in the empty darkness behind him watching.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two  
**_Unwanted Conversations_

"Rory, which schoolbooks did you say you needed again?" Aurora's mother, Stella, eyed the list in her daughter's hand as she paused in the middle of the re-developed Diagon Alley. Aurora stood beside her, taking a mental note of the stores that were still out of business – including Ollivander's. She frowned. She'd heard that Harry and his friends had found Mr. Ollivander… maybe he just wasn't well enough to come back to work. She hoped that was the case. She remembered the day she got her own wand from Mr. Ollivander. Fir* wood with a unicorn hair core, her most prized possession. Looking back, there was no denying that the wandmaker was erratically odd, despite how old he had looked.

"_Aurora_."

Aurora looked up at her mother, who was holding her hand out. Aurora looked at it, before realising that she wanted the piece of parchment she herself was holding: Stella's fingers clasped slowly around it as she eyed her daughter. Her tight brown curls wavered in the slight breeze, but her eyes stayed on Aurora.

"Daring, are you okay? Haven't you been sleeping well?"

The questions were so abrupt that they surprised Aurora. It was the first time in weeks that her mother had doubted anything. Most of the time, she always tried to take Aurora's mind of her mind. Almost reflexively, she nodded, completely aware that the dark circles under her eyes probably called her out as a liar.

Stella's retort was cut short, however, when a flash of a blonde in a black suit knocked Aurora forwards, followed by a mob of reporters. As she stole a glare over, all she caught was a tall man with platinum hair escaping into The Leaky Cauldron as poor Tom tried to block the crowd. His face – well, the profile she'd seen – looked familiar, and she remembered almost as instantly as she caught sight of him. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the next thing she knew was her mother was dragging her towards Flourish and Blott's, the last stop on their annual shopping trip.

"Mum, you don't have to hold on to me," Aurora snapped her wrist away. "It's not like I'm going anywhere else."

For a split second, Stella looked deeply hurt, but then smiled and held the bookshop's wooden door open for her daughter before following her inside.

The old bookshop was by far one of Aurora's favourites. As soon as she walked in, the familiar scent of aged parchment and venerable tomes hit her like an old friend. She smiled to herself as she walked in the opposite direction to her mother, her index finger tracing along the row of books at the perfect height by her side. This was how it always happened: her mother would go and make sure she got the right textbooks Aurora needed, while Aurora would simply browse at anything that interested her. One year, she'd reached the very back row of bookcases on the top floor, and had picked up an old edition of _Magical Uses for Muggle Appliances _when her mother had finally finished finding all that was on the list. Aurora knew this was the best way to get it done; her mother liked to control, and she knew she would just get in the way otherwise. It was like some kind of unspoken arrangement that had just developed over the years.

This year, it didn't take long. Aurora hadn't even finished scoping the ground floor when her mother came and collected her.

"Your father said that he would meet us outside The Leaky Cauldron tomorrow, when we go to King's Cross," her mother chatted as she counted the bags they'd accumulated. Aurora didn't know if she should smile or not. That was something she could always count on her father – he was always there to say goodbye when she left each year, but he seemed to never be there during the holidays. It was these times that were the only actual conversations she had with her father ever since her parents' divorce last Christmas – it was always goodbye, and never hello. Stella continued, seemingly ignoring her daughter's silence, "We're both so proud that you decided to carry on learning, Rory – I know your dad and I haven't seen eye to eye recently, but with you, we can always agree. Oh, darling, take these bags up to your room and I'll order us two big mugs of hot chocolate?"

They'd reached The Leaky Cauldron by this point. The reporters had dispersed during the time in which they were in Flourish and Blott's, and the inn was back to its languid vibe. Aurora inwardly sighed as the bags were thrust into her hands. Sluggishly, she climbed the stairs until she reached the second floor. When her mother had booked the rooms, Aurora had – as stealthily as she could manage – persuaded her to pay for a room each, knowing that she'd probably have issues with sleeping tonight of all nights. At least with her own room she didn't have to bore herself completely by pretending to sleep for her mother's sake.

When she reached the room door, she placed the bags down on the floor as she dug into her jeans pocket for the key, not taking any notice of a swift someone passing behind her. She did, however, immediately detect the fragrant wave of distinctive aftershave. The scent caught her off guard, its redolence differentiating itself from the old inn's signature musk. As she turned unthinkingly, all she caught sight of was a swift shadow swooping around the corner and the clear sound of descending footsteps down the flight of stairs.

...

The feeling of the infamous pea soup filled her stomach as Aurora pushed another spoonful into her mouth. She'd never cared for the thick, green broth but her mother always insisted that they'd both eat a bowl the night before Aurora would catch the Hogwarts' Express.

She looked up at her mother, who seemed deeply immersed in a discarded Daily Prophet lying on the table. That was one thing she admired with her mother: she wasn't scared of her daughter's preferred world. Even the summer she'd first learnt of Hogwarts and the wizarding world, Stella was calm but intrigued and open-minded. Maybe she'd always known that her only daughter was different – maybe it was all those times Aurora had been sent to the headmaster's office in primary school for unexplained things. They were always little things, like squirting paint at Nick Hall, the school bully, in art class after he stole Aurora's pencil, even though she – and her best (and only) friend, Alec – demanded that she never even touched the paint. Or that time when her class' pet parrot 'escaped' during Aurora's feeding slot, after she'd openly complained that it shouldn't be caged. But, especially during her final year of primary school, these 'events' began to accelerate. Stella had a call from her daughter's school at least once a week, and they were also getting more serious.

The final straw was during her class' reading time; Aurora had been silent for most of the half-hour, despite being constantly laughed at by Nick, but all of a sudden Nick's book caught on fire. Something had snapped in Aurora and it sparked, literally – and no one could explain it. The teacher was obviously beside herself with franticness, and immediately sent Aurora to the headmaster's without a second thought. The obvious assumption was that Aurora had somehow procured matches from somewhere, and the headmaster and Aurora's teacher seemed to overlook the lack of evidence that it actually was her, and the fact that the eleven-year-old girl simply didn't have any firelighters. Of course, her mother denied the fact that Aurora would do something like that, but even at that age, Aurora could see that her mother was doubting her daughter's normality. In fact, the day that the tall woman in an emerald cloak and circular glasses turned up on the door with Aurora's very first Hogwarts' letter, Stella seemed… _relieved. _She'd finally gotten the confirmation that her daughter wasn't normal – well, normal for the non-wizarding community.

Aurora stole a small smile to herself, remembering that day. She'd just broken up for summer from her primary school – absolutely no one, apart from Alec, had signed her uniform, in case she'd set fire to their pens, and Aurora had begun to feel nervous for secondary school. The rumours would more than pass over and she'd always be 'that one who tries to kill people with fire'. But then the woman – who she would learn to be Professor McGonagall – came and told her about Hogwarts, which sounded as magical as it actually is. And then everything seemed to make sense, all those things that had happened – and for the first time, Aurora knew that this school was somewhere that she would be accepted for being who she is.

She almost laughed into her soup. Of course, back then, she hadn't known about all those feelings towards Muggle-borns that simmered in the wizarding world. And she learnt the hard way; the verbal abuse, especially from the Slytherins, constantly reminded her of Nick Hall's jeers back in primary school. But at least at Hogwarts she could retaliate with controlled magic, and not just a squirt of paint.

"It's a shame we're going to miss your birthday," Stella sighed, surprising her daughter out of her thoughts.

"Why? You miss it every year."

"I know, but this year is your eighteenth – _by rights_, I should be able to at least spend the day with you if not throw you a party."

Aurora stared at her, not surprised at the slightly sad tones of Stella's voice. Stella kept her eyes on the paper, intently reading an article about the beginning of the Ministry's reformation. Aurora had always admired her mother's eyes, an oceanic blue that was both dull and bright at the same time. Almost everyone who had ever commented on them had said that Aurora shared the same colour – maybe that was what made her own eyes the only thing Aurora truly liked about her appearance.

She placed her spoon down next to her bowl, the now cold soup still filling half the dish, and looked around the inn. It was the same scene every year – the odd visitor littered across the room, quietly keeping to themselves along the wooden tables. Most were reading books or newspapers, others were quietly chatting to each other.

But there still seemed to be that fear smothering over the air.

The same fear that had gripped the entire wizarding society for the past four or so years, ever since Fudge eventually admitted Voldemort's return. It was almost like no one actually believed it was true, that Voldemort was truly gone.

Aurora turned back to find Stella staring at her once more, those eyes filled with motherly worry.

"Rory, are you sure you're alright? I mean, to go back? Dr. Hornby told me and your father that you had taken what had happened last year pretty badly – especially after being basically exiled from Hogwarts –"

Aurora let out a heavy sigh.

" – and that Battle that you should _never_ have been a part of. With everything that happened to Alec, and now to your Hogwarts friends – how do we know that won't happen again this year? It's ok to be upset and it's ok to be scared –"

"_I'm not scared_."

She hadn't meant to shout, or to raise her voice at all. Something had just… _riled_ her. She stared down at the wooden bench, feeling the burn from her mother's eyes on her face. Of course Stella knew what had happened in that therapy session – she wasn't eighteen yet, so everything still went through her parents. But the rug can only hide so much, and a lot had already been swept under it.

She waited before the low hum of conversation rose around them before she continued, her voice quiet. "Sorry, Mum, I just – I'm just tired of," she sighed. "I'm ok. Really."

The silence was overwhelming. This was exactly what Aurora had been trying to avoid all summer. Each second dragged on, the air getting heavier and heavier.

Eventually, Stella let out a sigh and leaned in. "Aurora, you can talk to me, darling. I know we haven't spoken much about Alec or what happened last year at Hogwarts, and I'm your _mother_, I'm allowed to be worried about you."

Frantically searching for a way out of the conversation, Aurora forced herself to look up at her mother and plaster a smile onto her face. "I know, Mum. Thanks."

...

Draco hid behind his copy of the Daily Prophet as an old woman wrapped in an indigo cloak shuffled past his table, completely oblivious to him. He was nestled in a tight alcove, tucked away from the Cauldron's main bar. He wasn't even reading the newspaper, knowing the black ink would simply boil his blood.

The sound of glass upon wood forced his grey eyes to flicker over the coarse paper until they met a pair of mud pools.

"Well, you're one person I didn't expect to see tonight, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco stared at the speaker as he sat down opposite, his expression blank. The man's cloak rumpled as he settled himself in the rickety chair. Slowly, Draco lowered the paper and folded it, dropping it on the table with a soft rustle, not taking his eyes of his visitor. He kept his mouth pursed into a straight line and simply watched as the stranger searched through his inner pockets. Finally, a fragile hand pulled out a pipe and an open envelope full of tobacco.

"After everything I've read about you and your folks, I'd have thought you'd keep yourself to yourself," the guest continued as he prepared his pipe. Draco prevented himself from laughing out loud. Funnily enough, that was exactly what he was doing, before he was… interrupted.

Silence consumed them, and Draco took this opportunity to absorb the man before him. Even in the dim candlelight of the inn, it was easy to see how much older he actually was. In fact, he looked positively ancient. His papery skin was indented with aging lines and his hair was as thin as a cloud against his spotted scalp. Even those dark eyes seemed dull, the mud a block colour.

The man puffed on his pipe, his shrivelled face illuminated by the fired glow. In the new light, Draco eyed the overly intricate design engraved in the pipe's surface – an emblem that seemed oddly familiar. Like he'd seen it before

After a while, the man looked up at him through the smoke and sighed heavily. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

Draco blinked. He shook his head once.

The man let out a small chuckle and reached for Draco's newspaper. "I'm not surprised. You were just a baby when I last saw you. You're the spitting image of your father."

"I'm nothing like my father," Draco spat in disgust before he could stop himself.

But the man did nothing but smoke his pipe and bore his eyes into Draco, ignoring the paper that lay limply in his free hand. The latter could feel the stare burn his pale skin, and he began to regret his sudden outburst. It was almost as if the atmosphere shifted as the short distance between them slowly filled with sickly smoke.

"Are you completely sure about that?"

The question took Draco by surprise. His lips parted to retort, but nothing came out.

The elderly man leaned in, his smoky breath nauseatingly warm on Draco's stiffening skin. "Did you or did you not take the Dark Mark? Are you or are you not, Draco Malfoy, _a Death Eater_?" Each word was uttered slowly, almost so inaudible that even Draco had to stain his hearing. "Once a Death Eater, _always_ a Death Eater, Draco."

The words made Draco feel sick to his stomach. They stuck like boiled sugar, welded into him – his skin, his blood, his damn arm.

The distance between them was resumed as, with a creak of the chair, the man withdrew but kept his keen gaze fixed on Draco. And Draco was determined not to flinch. He watched intently as, eventually, the newspaper was unfolded, slightly crumpled from the stranger's grip. He scanned the front page, his eyes slightly squinted, but nothing seemed to interest him. It was soon cast aside once more as he turned back to the boy opposite.

"Draco, there's something I want," the elder announced, relighting his pipe. "Something incredibly valuable, and it's somewhere in Hogwarts castle. You _are_ returning to Hogwarts, aren't you?"

Draco didn't answer. He continued regardless.

"I want you to find it, and I want you bring it back to me –"

"Why should I?" Draco's interruption rendered the elder man into silence. "I don't even know who you are."

And with that, the stranger smiled. It wasn't necessarily a cruel grin, but somehow it sent shivers down Draco's braced spine. "Because we're all family in the end, Draco. And that's all that matters."

* * *

_**A.N.**  
__EDIT: *Was previously 'vine wood' - however, after researching more into wandlore, I've decided to give Aurora a wand made of **fir** simply because I think this wand suits her more than a one made of vine wood - sorry for any confusion! I'll add this AN into my next chapter just in case this gets missed, thanks! Oh and thanks SO MUCH to everyone that's read this and to those who have already reviewed, it means so much to be! :-)_


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